I have started reading love stories
over the past twelve days. Not novels, mind
you, but stories on the Internet - stories
on Tumblr.

I read a story, just now, about a young girl,
in Chicago, marrying her husband at
the courthouse: her in a red dress, he in a
t-shirt.

She barely remembers the vows, she was crying,
smiling. They had know each other
in person for 30 days (Email and
message boards for years). That was four years
ago.

Thirteen days ago I started reading love
stories. On the fifteenth day I fly to
Nashville, to the August heat
which retreated from Chicago, Sherman
marching it’s way south for the
winter.

On that plane I will think about
that woman’s red dress, and her marriage. A
Sting song will cross my mind. I will
be sleeping with my contacts
in. I will skip breakfast so I will
not vomit.

In a steak house that reminds me of
a Vegas hotel I will be charming. I
will reaffirm.

Twelve days ago I started reading love stories. I
have read them before. I have cried
at them before, but these twelve day
tears are quieter, warmer in temperature, have
lower sodium content …

Content. The tears are content. Across
the continent I will go, a modern day
Johnny Appleseed muttering “we
will see, we will
see.”